


left alone

by jazspers



Category: Tales of Symphonia: Dawn of the New World
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-01
Updated: 2013-12-01
Packaged: 2018-01-03 04:08:08
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 929
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1065573
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jazspers/pseuds/jazspers
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>the hazy path to his thoughts clears inside of his head all at once and they start flooding in, expanding inside of him until he's sure his head will crack open and everything: bone, tissue, and abstract thought will burst out and rain down on the entire room.</p>
            </blockquote>





	left alone

**Author's Note:**

> vent writing p much
> 
> based off the night after richter told emil he didnt care about his form anymore and tried to kill him

There's a feeling right before you cry when your throat feels as if it's been invaded. You aren't sure if it's heat or prickling or tearing but the feeling of something growing inside of your throat is certain. Emil feels this and touches his throat, but the skin remains soft and still on the exterior, and he wonders if the feeling of sadness inside of him has grown enough to be a tangible object. The anger, the confusion, the betrayal all squish themselves together into a parasite with skin like thorns that makes it's home in his airways. When he breathes, it breathes, expanding the skin and subsequently tearing into his inner walls. There's a feeling that can't be described as anything but pain, and although Emil had spent a large portion of his life agonizingly afraid and alone, this was the first time he'd wanted his breath to stop. For a moment he holds it, the slight relief it brings him causing the tears in his eyes to well.

"It felt good" he thinks, and it was the only thought that could enter his head from that moment on. Up until he feels his body begin to sway and his chest begin to convulse, he refuses to allow himself to breathe. A momentary release is all he can depend on here, with his face smeared with tears and snot and spit and his clothes prying into his skin, stuck with sweat and grime. A blanket pushes his sticky hair onto his head and holds his body down into the mattress with sheets that pull on every small hair they can touch. Even with his legs curled in and his head buried in his knees, he can't find any form of comfort in this. Emil doesn't care though, because at least in this small, enclosed space, he feels safe.

He immerses himself in the feeling of falling into himself, preventing himself from breathing for just a bit longer every time his body forces him to draw in a hard, shaky breath. Air feeds the sadness, nurtures it, sharpens its skin and erodes every cord in his throat. It betrays his eyes as well, burning them unless he shuts them tight. The tears that fall are simply the remains of what was needed for relief, he tells himself as they cascade down his cheeks relentlessly.

The dizzying feeling of completely emptying your airways brings Emil the only sort of happiness that could be found. He's aware of how disgustingly pitiable he must seem, of how weak his resolve is, of how far down he was knocked in that single instant, but he can't think about it now. He's afraid of himself, no, for himself. The stitches in his heart were snipped through and it's broken now, pouring itself out inside of him, draining him of strength, emotion, and thought.

Though he refuses to focus on it, that scene doesn't stop replaying in his head. That name doesn't stop engraving itself into his mind, cutting into the back of skull and down his neck to make its mark. He breathes out, trying to distract himself from the echos of swords clanking in his empty ears and the faraway shouting of a voice like fine leather that he once dreamed about. The words "I don't care" seem so far away, but they weigh heavily enough on him to press into his chest, curling around each little rib and squeezing.

He isn't sure when he gives up, or how long since he'd started, but suddenly he's panting, trying to absorb every bit of oxygen that remains under the covers into himself. The hazy path to his thoughts clears inside of his head all at once and they start flooding in, expanding inside of him until he's sure his head will crack open and everything: bone, tissue, and abstract thought will burst out and rain down on the entire room. Red stained fantasies dance around inside of his eyelids until the walls are dripping violent cherry.

It hurts even worse to think about the color red.

But as soon as he realizes that, it's too late. Every thought turns deep auburn, waving in his face like the thin, silky strands of hair that caressed his skin when Richter drew his sword close enough. The face that Emil wanted nothing more than to run his fingers against contorted horribly, a malicious expression choking him more than the man's hands already had. He licks his lips, the memory of how they tickled when he imagined Richter's against his own cutting deeper than any blade he'd ever felt. His hands clutched his head and he shakes it vigorously, as if the memories are glass that would shatter against the hard skull wall, but they don't.

There's nothing to stop the shredding of the fragments of Emil's heart. Encased in a warm, itchy cocoon of emotion, he pulls all the air he can into his lungs, just desperate to feel life in his veins. Sweet memories of a love he harbored in his chest innocently that once tasted like candy on his tongue churn in his stomach. At some point he starts sobbing, the pathetic whimpers escaping his throat muffled to the outside by the thick comforter, but Emil can hear them inside and out. In between the strained breathing and the memories of watching Richter's profile with his heart beating in his ears, he realizes how familiar the sounds under the cushion are, and the thought makes every muscle in him stiffen.

He sounds like a dog.


End file.
